


although it's been said many times, many ways (four christmases kate beckett never had - and one she did)

by austen



Category: Castle
Genre: 1000-3000 words, 5 Things, Bittersweet, F/M, Family, Female Friendship, Holiday, Pre-Canon, Snark, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-23
Updated: 2009-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-05 02:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/36621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/austen/pseuds/austen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look at what never was for Kate Beckett on Christmas - and what actually happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	although it's been said many times, many ways (four christmases kate beckett never had - and one she did)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaitN](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaitN/gifts).



(_chestnuts roasting on an open fire_)

He draws her in and away from the kitchen counter, still wearing that awful wool sweater with the reindeer who have tiny red pom-pom balls for noses. Her hands smell like the cinnamon bread she's just cut into, fingers sticky with sugar. There's a remnant of flour on her cheekbone, and he lifts a hand to brush it away, drawing her in for a kiss.

"I hate that sweater, you know," she says, the words partially murmured against his mouth, and slips her hands under the bottom of it to curl her hands along his abdomen, finding the angles and curves where his hipbones jut out and then disappear beneath the waistband of his pants. He shivers.

"Now that we're married, you actually sort of have to do what I tell you," she declares, and turns her head away when he leans in to nuzzle her neck, laughing as the whiskers of his unshaven jaw tickle her skin.

Will just grins as she pulls away to wash her hands at the sink, washing the remnants of her baking off the diamond that sparkles on her left ring finger.

"Merry Christmas, Mrs. Sorenson."

 

(_and folks dressed up like eskimos_)

It's _cold_.

Cold might not even be an accurate description for it. Arctic might come closer, Beckett thinks, as she draws her scarf a little tighter around her neck and ducks into the warmth of the grocery store. The fluorescent lights, glaring, cause spots to dance in her vision, and she blinks a few times to let her eyes adjust.

The shelves are nearly empty, most of the milk and eggs having been cleared out long before she'd been able to get off work. She snatches up one of the last lone loaves of bread, tucking it in alongside a carton of egg nog as her cell phone buzzes in her pocket.

"Mom, hey."

"Did they have milk? I bet they didn't have any milk. I told you you should've gone out sooner."

"It's fine. I can always buy soy - there's plenty of that still."

Her mom signals her disapproval with a small _tch_ sound - almost loud enough as if she'd been standing right there in the store alongside her.

"Well, just whatever they have will be fine. And come right on over - you know how your father worries." She can hear her father's voice in the background, a rough timbre that even the speakers of her phone manage to pick up, and as she closes her eyes, she can picture him sitting in his chair, glass of lime seltzer in his hand.

"I'll be home soon. I love you."

"Love you too, Katie."

She wrinkles her nose at the nickname, but as she steps out into the December cold, the warmth of the memory lasts right up until the moment that she's knocking on the door of her parents' house.

 

(_find it hard to sleep tonight_)

The heater's out again.

Just one more reason she should've bought an apartment with a fireplace. Five minutes and just as many layers later, she's shuffling out to her kitchen to brew a fresh pot of coffee, praying that the electricity hasn't gone out too. It crackles to life as turns it on, and she keeps her fingers crossed well after it starts to brew, pure warmth and happiness trickling down in the form of caffeine.

She catches movement out of the corner of her eye, but doesn't turn as a pair of arms encircle her from behind and a kiss gets pressed against the back of her neck. She stiffens.

"Didn't think you'd still be here," she mutters.

"I was in the bathroom."

He's too close, too touchy, too clingy for the morning after. Even now, she's still having trouble remembering his name, but she can count on one hand the number of drinks she downed the night before at the Christmas party.

(Maybe one-and-a-half.)

"You'd better go - "

She falters on a name. He pulls away from her.

"Jake," he says, but she doesn't turn around.

The coffee maker spits hot water at her when the front door slams shut, and her mother's picture, in the frame on the wall, trembles.

 

(_and so I'm offering this simple phrase_)

The bookstore is packed full of people, and Beckett squeezes through a crowd of teenagers milling around a display of the newest vampire sequel, rising up on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of her friend.

"Kate, over here!"

Lanie's about to be swallowed by a rampant stampede of last-minute shoppers, and Beckett reaches out to clasp her friend's hand, serving as a human lifeline until the last of the haggard mothers has stormed off.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Lanie smiles gratefully, squeezing her hand, and then drops it as Beckett shakes her head.

"No. I keep telling my mom she shouldn't read bestsellers; they're always the first thing to go around here."

She surveys the crowd again. It's not really worth risking her own life to pick up one more last-minute gift; standing near her elbow, Lanie nudges her and points to the display in front of them. Beckett turns to be greeted with a life-sized cut-out of a tall, dark-haired man, arms crossed over his chest and an expression that implies he's _really_ all too full of himself.

"Introducing the newest chapter in the _Derek Storm_ series, by Richard Castle," Lanie reads, off the back of one of the hardcovers. Beckett picks up one for herself, flipping to the photo on the back insert. It's a miniature version of the cardboard cut-out, and she makes a small noise of disgust.

"Maybe you should just get your mom something new and different," Lanie suggests.

Beckett gives her a look.

"No way," she mutters. "Besides, have you even gotten a _look_ at this guy?"

"You don't think he's cute?"

"Are you kidding? I can just tell that if he and I were ever alone in a room together, I'd probably be forced to shoot him."

She sets the book back on the display; on the drive back to the precinct, Richard Castle's cocky smirk feels like it's been burned into her brain.

 

(_merry christmas to you_)

"It's a Christmas _dinner_, Beckett. Presents aren't exactly mandatory."

"Look - Christmas isn't really my thing, okay? I'm just not big on the holidays."

"Is this a cop thing? The fact that crime skyrockets around Christmastime? You have nothing to worry about. I know my mother can be a little overwhelming in small doses, but I swear here and now that I will not resort to matricide while you're over. Scout's honor." Castle holds up his hand in a silent oath.

Beckett looks skeptical.

"You were never a Boy Scout."

"'Clean in word, thought and deed'," he quotes, and Beckett does her best not to let her jaw drop.

"If only they could see you now," she counters, raising an eyebrow. Castle waves a dismissive hand.

"Regardless - Mother wants you to be there, Alexis wants you to be there, _I_ \- well, frankly, I could care less, but you know how determined Castle women can be." She swats him on the arm, then sighs, taking a sip of coffee for dramatic pause.

"Fine. But only because I know Alexis won't let you actually _prepare_ the food."

Castle places a hand against his heart, mock-wounded.

"You insult me. I happen to be a very good cook. You'd know that if you ever took me up on my offer to make you breakfast," he answers, suggestively waggling his eyebrows. She rolls her eyes.

"It's settled, then. Dinner's at seven, B.Y.O. mistletoe." He claps his hands, rubbing them together excitedly as she turns back to the mountain of paperwork awaiting her. Pointedly ignoring him at this point seems to be the best way to make him go away, and this time, at least, he gets the hint.

"Merry Christmas, Beckett."

"You too," she replies, without looking up.

Five minutes later, she finds the small box he's left for her, wrapped in red paper and resting on top of a stack of files.

"Merry Christmas, Castle," she whispers.


End file.
